


strawberry swing

by larkgrace



Category: The Kane Chronicles - Rick Riordan
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, cuties being cute on swingsets, seriously it's so fluffy you're gonna die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-30 10:07:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larkgrace/pseuds/larkgrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>cute diner dates and kindergarten playground wisdom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	strawberry swing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [musicallywritten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicallywritten/gifts), [VictoriaG16](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VictoriaG16/gifts).



> i just needed to write some zarter fluff because i'd realized i hadn't posted any on this site and that is a tragedy, let me tell you.
> 
> you should probably listen to [white](http://homestuck.bandcamp.com/track/white) while you read this because it is sad and sweet.

You’re fifteen and still kind of new to this whole dating thing, but it’s okay, because you’re slowly figuring it out as you and Zia walk home from the run-down diner you’d eaten in, and you carefully take her hand. She smiles but doesn’t comment, and instead clutches back at your fingers, linking them tighter.

“That was nice,” she says, and her teeth are startlingly white against the purple sunset, framed by the buildings on either side of you.

“Yeah,” you mumble in agreement, even if you think _nice_ doesn’t begin to cover a night of eating greasy fries and watching Zia’s nose wrinkle as she gets brain freeze from her milkshake.

She bumps her shoulder against yours and yawns, her free hand coming up to cover her mouth, and her eyes flutter shut and then snap open wide, like she’s refusing to be tired, and you’re pretty sure you’ve got a really stupid smile on your face right now.

You both stop at a break in the buildings, next to a weathered fence protecting a neighborhood park, and listen to the swings creak as the wind rocks them back and forth.

“What?” you say, because she’s got that _look_ that she gets when she’s thinking but doesn’t want to say anything.

“I’ve never been on a swingset before,” she says, and you think she sounds a little sad.

So you grab her wrist and haul her into the park, ignoring the sign stating that it’s closed after dark, and yell “Come on!” while she stumbles after you, and after she sits in a swing you stand behind her and grab the chains above her hands and pull back and then let her swing forward, and she’s laughing the whole time. You don’t have to show her how to pump her legs to keep up the momentum, because she’s smarter than you and figures it out just fine on her own, so you jump into the seat next to her and scramble to catch up to her altitude, just like always; just like always, she drags her heels in the dirt until you start swinging in tandem.

Cautiously, you reach across the space between you and take her hand again. You’re pretty sure that your hand is sweaty and gross but if she notices she doesn’t comment. Eventually your masses change the rate of your acceleration—stupid inertia, you hate physics—and you’re forced to release her hand before one of you gets your arms dislocated.

She drags her shoes in the dirt, and you do the same, until you’re both just rocking yourselves with your feet firmly planted on the ground, and she reaches out to take your hand back.

“You know,” you say, “it’s common kindergarten playground wisdom that if your swing matches up with someone else’s, you’re married.”

She snorts. “I think we’re a bit young for that.”

“Actually, kids can get legally married at twelve in the US,” you tell her. “Disturbing as it is.”

She turns to stare at you. “Really?”

“Yup,” you say. “Girls anyway. I think guys have to wait until they’re fourteen or something. Since we’re just not as _mature_ as you,” you sneer, and she sticks her tongue out at you.

“And how, exactly, do you _know_ this?” she asks.                                         

You laugh. “Dad always used to tease Sadie about marrying her off as soon as she was old enough, before…” You trail off.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, sounding kind of sad. “Before.”

You rub her knuckles with your thumb and pull her to her feet. “Come on, we should probably get home.”

She stands and sprints for the fence, yelling “Race you!” as she jumps over it.

“Cheater!” you call after her, and dash for the gate.

You run for six blocks back to Brooklyn House, and she beats you—she would’ve even without a head start—and she’s winded even though she’s in better shape than you. You’re gasping for air, hands on your knees and legs burning.

You climb the stairs slowly, and when you reach the top step she kisses you.


End file.
